


Grantaire The Cynical

by GrantairetheCynical (Rebel_Atar)



Series: Grantaire The Cynical [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Depression, Drabble Collection, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, M/M, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 10:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 23
Words: 7,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6700951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rebel_Atar/pseuds/GrantairetheCynical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of drabbles written as back story for Grantaire or as Fic Friday prompts for the grantairethecynical tumblr RP blog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: When did Grantaire first meet Enjolras.

He had been sitting at a cafe across the square when the rally started. He sneered at the students and drank more deeply of his absinthe. Then he heard his voice.

Full of fire and revolutionary fervor. He turned to see who could possibly possess it, and see he did.

There he stood, hair like spun gold in the sunlight, eyes full of righteous fury. He was brilliant and beautiful like the sun, like Apollo arisen himself. In that moment it felt like his heart stopped and some huge piece he never knew was missing from his life fell into place.

He understood now, what other artists called a muse, for he had just found his and he could not imagine anyone more glorious. When the world and his heart started again it felt like its beating would break his chest. While he longed to bask in the glory of this young god, Grantaire was aware of how utterly beneath him he was.

He fled before he could be scorned by that gaze.


	2. Blame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Blame

He does not remember the first time it was said to him, or even the first time it was implied. Only that the weight of his crime has long sat across his shoulders by now.

“It’s your fault!”

It was not said often, but always hung unspoken in the air between them.

“You killed her!”

He grew used to it as the years rolled by the guilt carved deep onto his bones, blame long shifted into simple fact.

“Murderer!”

The doctor could only save one of them, and she had lost so much blood.

“I wish you had died in her stead!”

The mother killed by the birth of her child, and the father who could never forgive his son’s existence.


	3. When Dreams Were Held Close

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Childhood Dreams

He had still been young when what was the start of the end had come about, but 15, and only just at that.  
Sitting in his room, oils out, forms taking shape beneath his brushstrokes. A family at meal time, happy, smiling, whole. Mother father and child all together.  
He looked at it and smiled sadly at what never had been him.  
He sighed wistfully, but his musing was interrupted by the slamming of a door downstairs. He squeezed his eyes shut against the agitated sounds he could already hear. That night was a bad night, that much was certain.

The racket grew closer as the pounding of feat on the stairs were added. The door to his room was flung open.  
His father stood in the door way, a dark shadow outlined by the candlelight. He stepped forward, heavy steps, to show he was red faced and obviously angry.

“What do you think you’re playing at boy!” A crash as paints were swept off a far dresser, the boy flinched.  
“D-Da’ wh-what do you mean”

The mans stepped quickly across the room to fist both hands in the boys shirt and lift him bodily to eye level “DO NOT PLAY GAMES WITH ME!” Bellowed into the childs face. “YOU, refused apprenticeship with Master Aguillard this morning didn’t you” he shook the boy “DIDN’T YOU!”

“Y-yes but D-Da’ I don’t want to be a carpenter, I want to paint, I’m going to be an Artist, I-” He was flung heavily across the room, his head striking the side of a cabinet and splitting, bleeding heavily, leaving him dazed.  
“You stupid, worthless, waste of LIFE! How dare you think you can just take what you were given and throw it back in my face, in her face. MURDERER!”

The man stepped heavily towards him, each footfall causing him to cringe more and more in on himself.

“She died because of you, you stole her life and you will spend the rest of it making it worth something. You’re not to fritter it away on canvas and paint fumes and useless, pointless dreams. What artist would you be, who would take you in, knowing what you are, what you did.”

The boy whimpered, tears beginning to fall and received a sharp kick to the ribs for his trouble, driving the breath from his lungs.

“Your petty, pretty artistic ideals will not put bread on this table, will not pay what you owe to me Boy. I will not have you waste her life on childish pipe dreams.”

The man stalked back towards the canvas and easel. “So this is what you think will bring you fortune, will fulfill your dreams?” He took both canvas and easel and snapped them over his knees.

“Da’ no!” but the man did not even falter and once finished threw the pieces towards what he would never recognise as his son.

“They are as worthless and wasteful as you are. In the morning you will return to Master Aguillard and you will tell him you made a mistake, that you have reconsidered and you will BEG him to take you on. I will not have my life sink further into the mire as a result of your existence”. He sneered at the boy “Clean this mess before you even think of sleeping” and stalked from the room, slamming the door behind him.

The boy, whose name, though it was never spoken in this house, was Rene, held the wreckage of his painting in his hands. He sat and sobbed over it for what must have been hours, eventually though determination won out through the tears. That night he made an oath. He did not care how hard he would have to work, or how long it would take, but he would get out of this house, of this cage, and he would live his dreams, and he would be free.


	4. Falling Under

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire reaches his limit.

The light had faded a little since Grantaire had started this particular binge. He had drank his way through a couple of smaller sized bottles of wine before moving onto Absinthe, for once not caring for its particular preparation, just swigging from the bottle.  
Since opening that first bottle, he had gone through a large quantity of his Absinthe supply.  
He no longer felt the cold air on his naked chest, to strong was the burn in his blood, to flushed from alcohol and wormwood was he to feel such things now.  
His body felt almost entirely numb, except for that ache in his chest. It had diminished from earlier, it no longer burned so bright or hot, but it was still there. A niggling discomfiture and reminder he could not yet lose.  
He lifted the bottle to his lips once more, drinking deep, not caring for the rivulets of deep green that spilled over his mouth to run down his chin. He could no longer hold the bottle steady.

His head swam, his vision too unfocused, to blurred and multiplied to see much of anything anymore.  
His mind was filled with equal parts fuzz and lingering despair.  
His breath caught as he lowered the Absinthe, irregular and slow.  
If he had been able to think he would have been quietly amazed that he still retained consciousness. As it was he often had to blink and shake his head to stave off the oncoming darkness, so determined was he to drown all feeling.  
Not satisfied to rest until he had. No matter the consequences on himself


	5. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a party in which he kissed Marius in an attempt to educate him Grantaire reflects.

Grantaire sat with his wine, in a glass on this rare occasion, and contemplated the events of a few nights previous.

Unlike his friends it was not Marius’ behaviour that concerned him, although his friend had been far out of line that night. No, it was his own actions that were giving him pause.

It is not that a kiss was particularly out of character for him, especially when intoxicated. Kissing his friend was not something he had previously thought upon, Marius loved Cosette, and Grantaire did not find that Marius caught his interest in such a manner, but for the furthering of his friends education in a field he so enjoyed…how could he resist.

Marius was blissfully naive, talking nonsense about things he knew apparently nothing about. The urge to re-educate him, to show off some was what drove him.  
It had been purely in jest…until it hadn’t been.

Marius was inexperienced and shocked at Grantaires actions, and somewhere between the inexperience and shock it was almost like he was kissing someone else.  
As he dropped his left hand from his friends face it had almost been like the jawline became stronger, as he plunged his tongue into his friends mouth it had almost been like he could taste revolution.  
For a few moments he could have sworn it was…it was his Apollo. His at last, and he was lost.

He cannot recall if he moaned, or made any sound at all during, but he is sure if he did it must have been in that moment. He remembers turning the kiss more passionate, thrusting his tongue into the others mouth. He felt like drowning man tasting air, he wanted, he needed it so badly, for when would he get another chance like this. He remembers slipping his hand under shirt linen, to stroke up a broad chest. He felt euphoric, gripping the hair in his right hand tighter.

He remembers it felt wrong, the hair too short, too coarse. Suddenly the lips under his were the wrong shape, the body he was pressed against completely wrong. His mind returned. He panicked momentarily, pulled back, acted like everything was normal.

He went about the night like it was part of the plan, all part of his…lesson.  
The truth was he had lost control, lost reality in that moment.  
All over one man, one insufferable man, Gods above what had even become of him.  
He could not stand this, to be like this. Would every man he lay with, every man or woman he kissed morph beneath his mouth, beneath his hands.  
Was this madness forever bound to him now.

The events of that night had shaken something loose in him. Something he did not know if he could put right. He was stuck with this madness. Worse, he was stuck wishing it had not been Marius whose lips he had plundered that night at all, yearning for something he thought for a few glorious moments was his, but never was.


	6. Realisations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: The first time Grantaire realised he was not only attracted to women.

He had always felt a little…different, in regards to his attractions, than most boys his age. They would run around talking about this girl and that and while he could see the appeal, it was not much different from how he felt about most people anyways. He was seven and too young to understand.

He was eleven and the other boys were just the same as they always were, and he just as different. There were girls that caught his eye now and then, but he it felt off. Whether when he looked at them or when he looked at anyone. It felt like he only had a piece of the picture and he would never feel right until he knew the rest.  
Then a new family moved to their town. They has a son, eleven, he has pale skin and thick blonde curls. He was angelic and beautiful. Little did he know that one day he would meet one even more so.

Rene felt the rest of the pieces fall into place. 

He felt euphoric.

He felt horrified.

He knew even at this young age that this was not normal, not accepted. He knew this was something he could never act upon this, that he would have to pretend to be like the other boys, that he must never tell anyone.


	7. Freedom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grantaire's parents

Two years have passed since he took the apprenticeship at the behest of the man he was forced to call father.  
Rene had not given up his dreams, no, not yet.

He had lied to his father for the first time in his life, and he had never made a better decision. He had convinced his father that a starting apprentice of his young age and little experience was paid about half as much as was actually the case. He had kept the rest of the money hidden, secreted away. He had sacrificed sleep often to creep out of the house at night, taking odd jobs to earn just that little bit extra. Hid this money with the rest. Most off all he spent these two years waiting and planning.  
Now he was finally almost ready.

 

He had left work early that day, begging a half day with the promise to make it up later in the week. He had felt a little dishonest as it was a promise he never intended to keep, but really it was for the best, there were more important things at stake than the ire of an angry carpenter that he had absolutely no intention of ever seeing again.  
At home he had packed up the few paint supplies he had left along with the few clothes he had to spare. Then he had stolen as much food as he could carry from the house. Everything was ready for him, just as he had hoped, just as he had planned.

 

Until the door opened. His father had come home early.

 

“Now, now, now, what do we have here.” His sinister drawl sent chills down Rene’s spine.

“I dropped by your work today Boy, do you know what happened? Your master told me you took a half day. Explain yourself” he hissed.

“I’m leaving”

No nerves this time, no stutter, no mumbling. Just flat undeniable fact. The young mans voice was tired but resigned, certain. By now, he had simply had enough.  
“Excuse me, Boy? I don’t think I heard you ri-“  
“I am leaving.” This time less flat, less quiet, righteous fire beginning to burn through his veins.  
“I am leaving this house, I am leaving this life and I am leaving you.”  
“And where do you think your going to go Boy” the elder sneered.  
“Paris. I have been corresponding with an artist there, he’s willing to take me on as a student of his. I’m going to be a painter and you cannot, and will not stop me.”  
The man laughed hollow and mocking.  
“You sure about that Boy, you absolutely certain ‘cause from where I’m standing you’re not going anywhere”  
He was grabbed by hair and brought in close, that’s when the fight really started. Two punches to the face before he was thrown across the room by his hair. The man stalked forward, boots echoing heavily across the floor.

 

Rene spat out the blood from his mouth and got up angry. He took a wild swing at his father and connected strongly with his jaw. He delivered another hit to the face and one to the gut. He tried for a second but the man caught his hand twisted his arm violently to the side. His wrist wrenched hard in the socket, and Rene gasped in pain.  
His father viciously punched him in the chest and there was a loud crack, causing the boy to cry out in anguish.  
“Told you you were worthless, can’t even stand up for yourself. She was worth so much more” he twisted his sons wrist and the boy fell to knees.  
“You should have died in her place.”

 

Rene raised his head to stare up at him, eyes full of fire and absolute defiance. He slammed a fist into his fathers gut, winding him. The grip loosened slightly on his wrist and he snatched it free. With his undamaged hand he threw another punch and felt the jaw give way beneath his fist this time, shattered. Then grabbing the hair at the back of father’s neck he forced his head down as he drove his knee up. He felt the crunch of bone again and saw blood spurt onto the floor, a broken nose. He let go and watched as his father slumped to the floor, unconscious.  
Rene grabbed some spare swathe of cloth and formed a loose sling to hold his wrist, he grabbed his bags and headed to the door.  
He looked back briefly in sorrow, wishing it had not come to this, wishing he had really had a father, wishing he had truly had a home.

He left, shutting the door and headed to the outskirts of the town to where he knew a cart was waiting to take him away. He breathed the air in deep, feeling the weight leave his shoulders with each step, smile tugging at the corners of his bruised and battered lips.

Finally, finally he was free.


	8. To Imbibe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grantaire's first drink and most recent drink.

First Drink

Rene was twelve. He was awkward and complicated in ways even he didn’t know or understand and his friends were some what…dubious. The boy without a mother was somewhat of a pariah. However this group at least put up with him, he may have to fetch and carry occasionally, he may have to put up with their sneers, he may have to go along with their antics, but alone he was vulnerable. At least he was safe here.  
It was the thirteenth birthday of one of the group. They were all sat around in front of the fire in the main room of his house. His parents conspicuously absent for the evening.  
At some point, he cannot quite recall when, one of the boys started passing around deep cups of wine. Rene was unsure and hesitant, alcohol not normally being present in his household. After a few jeers however he was soon drinking deeply of it. It tasted strange and sour, the after taste even worse, and it stung his throat when he swallowed. All in all, he thought it could have been worse. As the night went on though the boys kept drinking, and while Rene did his best to drink little while feigning lots at one point cherry brandy was produced. He tried to avoid it but the cup was sipped by the others and passed around in turn and the snide remarks and smirks directed at him forced him to take it. He looked at it with trepidation, the challenge of the others that he couldn’t drink it, that he was too weak to with stand downing it echoed through both his head and the room. The thing is though, he was weak, he could not withstand their words. He brought the cup to his lips and tilted it back with his head, draining the rest in one. He coughed and spluttered at the burn of the surprisingly sweet liquid. He received praise and many pats on the back for his trouble. For the rest of the night he was no longer the outcast but accepted, an equal.  
When his head began to swim and the first dizziness set in he bit back the instant panic that he felt, plastered a smirk on his face and faked drinking everything else handed to him the rest of the night. He would never admit to anyone how much he found that initial loss of control terrifying. Later that first moment would be something he welcomed, but there would be years to pass before then

 

Last Drink

Grantaire had finally managed to clear the remnants of his Canvases. He had acquired new canvases and refreshed the paints he was running short of. Set up his easel and was preparing to attempt to replace some of the ones he had actually liked the idea of. Meanwhile the last few grains of a sugar cube were dissolving into a glass of absinthe. He stirred the glass once and tapped the spoon on the side. He set up the next glass and drank deeply of this one. He would need a little extra inspiration to recreate the original sketches, perhaps they might even be better this time.


	9. Curls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Hair

His hair had always been a riot of jet black curls. When he had been younger they were less messy, more precisely formed.

Now they were an untidy mess, he often ran his hand through them in thought. They were much softer than they looked and as such once most people had their hands in them they often found it difficult to let go.

Grantaire never minded. He loved the feeling of hands running through his hair, nails scraping over his scalp. It was relaxing and pleasurable to be petted such, not in a sexual way, but it just made him ooze contentment.

He also loved it when his partners would tug his hair. Whether it be to old him in place while they kissed, to direct while he pleasured them with his mouth, or just liked to pull hard and watch hear him moan.

He loved it all, and he loved his hair. No matter how much of a mess it made of him.


	10. A Fallen Idealist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Bitterness and Loss of Hope

It was six months since the death of the man he was studying under. Six months of wandering the streets of Paris trying to find someone new to study under.  
Any artist that wanted to teach already had their pupils, more eager than he and most likely more talented.

He had seen such things in those months, the people, the reality, and how little would change, how little he could change, how little his life had changed, himself had changed.

It was six months since the death of the man that had been his salvation. The truth of the world was bleeding through his artistic haze. Where before there was life and laughter he saw hunger and sorrow and death.

It had been six months, and now he picked up a bottle as bitter as he was to try and coax some inspiration, some glimpse of the halcyon world from before. When he was filled with ambition and ideals, when he was filled with hope. Now looking at the world, at his life, he could feel hope slipping away. His ideals tarnish his faith and ambition broken.  
The absinthe was strong, he let it numb him to the core.


	11. The First of Many

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: First Kiss

It had been a summer night and he was fifteen. His father had forced him into apprenticeship a few months previous and he was not taking it well. He bore it as well he could, the means to an end. The dying light in the last days of summer had looked fantastic through the haze of several glasses of wine and she was beautiful.

A little older than him with soft curves and a wicked smile and the wine gave him such courage, he flirted in response to he subtle questioning and before the night was over was rewarded with a kiss. He was completely inexperienced but she a patient teacher and it was wonderful. When he finally meandered his way home he fell asleep with a smile on his face and dreamed of her lips on his.


	12. Muse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Paintings and Apollo

From the moment he found his muse it was he could paint, for a while at least.  
He painted classical depictions, how could he not with Apollo himself as his muse. All of the mythos he knew, every war, every tragedy, every love affair. He soon grew tired of those, the jealousy was too much to bear. He went back to the general mythos to calm it.

He should have been grateful, the head of the muses himself as his muse, but it wasn’t enough. He moved on to more modern works, the image of a rally. A young man in red stirring up revolutionary fervor. He was always in red, the colour of blood, the colour of passion. So perfect against his golden hair and alabaster skin.  
His work became frenzied for a while. Beautiful art came to life beneath his hands and he had never felt so inspired, even if some of it strayed towards or outright marched into pornographic territory.

 

Then he started mixing together symbolism and different mythologies to add depth and emotions and subtext that he simply could not have expressed into his work. He had never painted anything so brilliant.

 

Then, finally he met Apollo. Unfortunately this also meant that Apollo met him.  
His artistic talent dried up at around the same time he started attending the meetings.  
Oh he could still sketch, he had hundreds of sketches, but when he tried to put them on canvas he just could not bear to finish a single one. The reality of his muses scorn and disdain sapped him of inspiration, of talent.

 

The symbolism started to take a more depressing turn. Culminating in what, if he could ever finish would be his masterpiece, his finest work never to be surpassed.  
It showed a risen Apollo, shining and glorious and contemporary but bedecked in enough of his symbolic regalia to know his true self. At his feet knelt Dionysus. He too was contemporary but haggard and downtrodden, his clothes were rags and his cheeks tear-stained. He too bore his regalia but it was broken, shattered. He was shown as fallen, as mortal, in supplication of Apollo, begging for acknowledgement, washing his feet. He bore Grantaire’s face.

 

When the painting were destroyed by his own hand he painstakingly recreated every last one, even those that would most likely have never been finished regardless. he saved this one for last, took his time, and this time used even larger canvas. It was beautiful and heartbreaking, and most days he could not bear to look at it, let alone finish it.


	13. Halted Studies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grantaire was a former student

Grantaire had studied under the artist for four years now. Honestly these days he was mostly left to his own devices.  
Once he had mastered anatomy and excelled at both painting and sketching techniques it came down to symbolism and knowledge.

Generally that meant a lot of reading and a lot of research.

Most artists generally only covered their one particular area of expertise, but Rene idolised the masters, the Renaissance geniuses and knew that they all had much wider reaching knowledge, especially Da Vinci.

So he read, and read, and read. Classics, history, mythology, philosophy, politics, literature, poetry, and everything else besides. His bedside was piled with books he had acquired during his time here. He was going to soon be able to start a library at the rate he went through them.

It was worth it though. The first time he added nods to Greek mythology and common symbols of literary archetypes to a piece his master was overjoyed. He was praised, he had talent but not only that he had the drive, passion, knowledge and understanding to back it up. Once his studies were complete he would be a truly great artist. He had never felt such pride in his abilities.

That year though something happened, what it was he never found out, but the Monsieur spent less and less time with any of his student and more and more time in solitude. He became withdrawn, sullen, melancholic. No one knew what was wrong, not one of them could fathom it.

He had not left his room for a week when Grantaire last saw him. He looked exhausted, haunted, hollow. He had smiled sadly at Grantaire, mentioned that he was going out for a short time and not to worry. Grantaire had worried regardless.

Three days later when there was still no sign of his master, he broke the lock on the mans door and entered his flat to search for some idea as to where he had gone.  
What he found was an envelope with his own name on the front, Rene.  
In side was a short note. It stated a lack of surprise at him being the one to find it, he being the best and brightest of the Monsieur’s students. It said that one day, if he continued down his path he would be a great artist. It said his master was sorry, so, so, sorry but he could not find faith in the world any longer. Later that day, his body was found washed up on the banks of the Seine, drowned.

He had cried rivers of tears. His passion and his drive had slowly left him in the following months, and while he had looked for a new master, his heart was not truly in it. He declared himself forever a student, with no master to declare him fit as an Artiste in his own right, but he would never be a student again, he could not bear the study.

He sold his books and took a flat near a Cafe called Musain. The rent was reasonable and the absinthe was strong, and at the time he had wondered if he would ever feel the inspiration to paint again.


	14. Fickle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Grantaire does not always like Enjolras

Enjolras was beautiful in a fierce and fiery way like nothing he had every seen before. He was full of revolution and rebellion, justice and equality. He was great in the way that Alexander was great, and what he would have given to be his Hephaestion. He cared for his Apollo in a way even he did not realise a lot of the time, though he baited and taunted and teased, though he criticised and argued.

However Enjolras was often as terrible as he was great. He never so the wisdom in Grantaire’s cynicism, the genuine worry that things were not thought through as well as they should be. The holes in his arguments only served to anger him, rather than realise the solutions, rather than work to fix his strategies.

He was eloquent at best and worst, and he tore the cynic to shreds with his verbal daggers and left his heart bleeding and ragged. The artist bore it as well as he could, which was mostly to drink until the pain faded. This usually only served to make matters worse.

It was somewhat ironic that despite all the glorious things he though and felt for his Apollo, he often did not like him very much.


	15. Rare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: A good day

When Grantaire had awoken that morning he knew it was one of his rare days. Today he did not feel the emptyness, the hollowness that characterised most of his days. Nor did he feel the apathy or horribly painful void in his chest that seemed to try to suck the rest of him down into it, that made it feel like his ribs would cave in, the feeling that plagued him so terribly on his bad days that sometimes he could not bring himself to get out of bed. Today he woke up, and felt normal. He felt as he had before his descent into the life he lived now, as he had when he was still a student. He felt, if not whole, at least human, and he smiled.

He stretched and rose, making tea instead of absinthe to start his day. He ate, breakfast at breakfast time as opposed to well past two. He dressed in clothes that were soft against his skin, and clean, and felt good for it. He set up an easel and transferred a sketch from paper to canvas, it turned out well and he smiled again. Not the hollow smile that did not reach his eyes, that he plastered on for the benefit of his friends, not the seductive smirk, or devilish grin, but a soft and genuine smile.

He thought perhaps later he would go to the Musain, there was no meeting today and he did not feel the urge to drink, but it might be nice to see his friends and just exist in their presence for a while, unburdened by his usual melancholia.

Today was a good day he thought, and if he was lucky, he may even get to feel some small measure of happiness before the end of it.


	16. Scorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after a meeting of Les Amis Grantaire contemplates the night before.

Grantaire sat alone in the Musain, absentmindedly toying with the neck of a bottle. He had not drank much yet, but was planning on it.

His chest ached, bone deep and empty, and he was exhausted. Emotionally there was just not much left to him right now.  
The meeting of the previous night weighed heavily on his mind.

He had drank too much, as usual.

How could he not. Once, when he had first started attending them he had tried to stay sober. However he had soon found that he could not stand the strain of being in Apollo’s presence sober, nor could he stand his scorn.

The previous night he had said some admittedly obnoxious things about Enjolras’ blind idealism and had paid the cost. The blond had ripped him to shreds verbally, topping it all with a long string of insults ending in a sneered ‘Libertine’.

Now he sat contemplating how someone so set on equality and justice could be so closed minded, how he could be so cruel. Now he sat contemplating how distasteful he must be.

He closed his eyes against the burn in his chest, and lifted the bottle so as to replace it with another burn entirely.


	17. The Worst Days of All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Grantaire there are more downs than ups. Some downs can be especially bad.

Such is the nature of things that there are good days and bad days, in this fashion it can also be said that on rare occasions there can be both very good or very bad days.  
Such is the nature of Grantaire’s temperament, of this artists mind, that he has much more bad than good. This day was very very bad indeed.

He woke up cheeks and pillows damp from tears that would not cease falling though he did not remember the cause. He sniffled and turned, cocooning himself in blankets and quilts as he attempted to steal some more precious sleep.

Sleep came but it was not peaceful. On days like this he was dragged under by nightmare after nightmare. Terrors formed by things best forgotten, by fears, by half formed terrible notions and the bottoms of too many absinthe bottles.

He tosses and struggles and is fitful in his sleep. It is not at all restful. When he finally manages to claw his way to consciousness, he wakes for the second time, a sobbing mess. Exhausted body wracked with the force of his tears, wracked with a pain he cannot explain or describe to any who would ask it.

On days like this once he has woken he wraps himself deeper into his nest of covers, the second sleep only ever proving to make him more tired than before. He will not eat, he is utterly robbed of appetite, instead it is replaced by a swirling nausea in the pit of his stomach. He will grab the nearest bottle of absinthe, not wishing to venture into the world even as much as to leave his bed.

He drinks despite the nausea, trying to fill the horrible sucking void beneath his ribs. It feels like some deep black hole lurks there trying to consume everything that he is in an attempt to fill itself, sometimes he swore he could feel his ribs breaking. 

On these days he will spend almost all of it fighting back tears in the moments he is not sobbing. These moments are few.

He drinks also to try and numb the pain that causes the tears, and there is so much of it. His soul his wretched with it. The biting pain of jagged open wounds that will not heal, that scab over only to be torn open once again. The deep stretching ache of old badly healed scars. The raw visceral agony that is the ragged of his shard a soul that screams for a missing half that will not even deign to acknowledge him.


	18. A New Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Waking up in the 21st Century

Grantaire stirred slowly. Curling and snuggling into the impossibly soft warmth that surrounded him He stretched and yawned, blinking blearily. He felt good, relaxed, well rested, peaceful It struck him that even his bed was not this decantly soft and he sat up, gazing around.

The room was so strange. So different to his own and yet the same. The room was the same shape and size, the floor clean and varnished and smooth looking. Slim furniture littered the room and soft rugs were strewn over the floor. Large canvasses and tins of bright, vibrant paint sat against the wall. The bed was even larger than his own.

He swung himself out of bed, feet softly padding on the floor and went through into what would have been his living room. It was eerily similar. Once more the same size and shape, the fireplace gone but three large plush couches sat around some flat black rectangle instead.

He spotted a group of odd looking paintings on a side table. Wandering over he picked the first of them and almost dropped it in shock. It was a perfect image of him, as if someone had taken reality and frozen it on to this paper encased by glass. It showed him, happy, blissful smile across his face, wrapped in the arms of an equally smiling sun god. With shaking hands he replaced it to pick up another and another. Upon grasping the last he fell to the ground on his knees, tears streaming down his face as a sob wrenched its way out of his throat. It was he and Enjolras, shown in only shades of grey, but still a perfect still reality, caught up in a passionate, loving kiss.

He broke. His most painfui secret dreams, thoughts he never dared hop for fulfillment of, made real before his eyes. His heart wept in agony and joy. His deepest desire realised, and he had no knowledge, no memory. Apollo himself not here to bring confirmation. Yet he could not deny the truth his eyes showed him. He sobbed.

A thought struck him. What of Apollo, what of any of them. Was he the only one in this strange new existence. He rose, still shaking, still crying, still clutching the strange glass enclosed image and returned to the bedroom.

He pulled on strange soft clothes as he had seen on himself in the images. He picked out a leather satchel, paper and tin of charcoal enclosed inside and slid the taken image into it.

The artist left the house, heading in the direction of the Musain. If any of the others where here, that is where they would gather.


	19. Revelry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: getting hella drunk for the very first time

The sun cast a orange haze over the city as it began to set, throwing long shadows behind the young artists where they sat. They were all of them apprenticed to the same man, a sometimes bitter but kindly man and one boy in particular had never found an adequate way to repay the extent of kindness offered to him. Rene Grantaire, had been apprenticed with the others for just over a year now and they were celebrating his success.

It had been an eventful year, the first on his own, the first with any real measure of freedom and he’d grown fond of the master and other apprentices who had accepted him, who had grown fond of him in return. The past few months he had made acquaintances with some strange and seemingly eccentric people as he began to fathom out his art style and the others laughed and joked about what secrets they could possibly share, about what could draw them to little Rene. He still was small for his years, twelve months not quite being enough to make up for his entire life before hand, but he had put on some muscle and height much to the apparent pleasure of one of his patrons. The others teased him about this as well.

Amidst their laughter and teasing bottles of wine had been passed around freely. It was not the first time Rene had indulged, not by some years, but he normally restricted himself to small amounts, enough to relax and make his thoughts lose their sharp edges. Tonight he had not kept track of the amount, his fellows drank without restraint and for the first time he matched them.

Soon it was not just his thoughts that became softer but the whole world as well. Their laughter had become more raucous with the passing hours, the sun had now set but none felt the chill the night brought with it. Grantaire himself felt flushed, his head swam pleasantly. One wild gesture and another apprentice tipped himself off the crate he was sat on and Rene did not think he had ever laughed so hard in his life.

Someone suggested venturing into the night. There were sights to see and many delights and adventures for a young man in the Parisian dark. The youngest artist had staggered to his feet, one arm slung around one of his friend’s shoulders as they held each other up to sway off into the night.

In the morning he would wake, sick to his stomach with love bites on his neck, to more teasing and friendly laughter. For now he let the others lead him off, content to let someone else make his decisions for the moment.


	20. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: One memory he wishes he could change.

In moments of deepest melancholy it was one of the things he dwelt upon the most.

Not the moment he found out the truth of the matter, but the days before hand. That last day he had seen his mentor, not knowing it would be the last time he would see him.

If only he had said something, offered some comfort. If only he had done more, perhaps the man would still be alive. Perhaps his life would not have spiralled into the deplorable mess it had done.

If nothing more he could have given a man not long for the world the knowledge that someone at least still cared, and would miss him when he was gone.


	21. Christmas

It had never been his favourite time of year.

 

Watching other children recieve gifts from loving parents, seeing joy and laughter, people being good to each other for once.  
It was so different from what he experienced at home.

 

All little Rene came to expect was a meagre meal as his father did not believe in indulgence and, if he was lucky a night without incident that he could spend peacefully in his room secretly working on his talents in the hope someday they would help remove him from this place.

Now winter was his favourite season. A time for wrapping up warm, for sitting by the fire. A time for warming spiced drinks and decadent treats. A time to see all his friends happy, contented with their companionship in such a season. He may not have a loving family but it brought warmth to him to see his friends with their own.

He painted gifts for some, purchased items for others. He even cautiously put together something for a remarkable young man he’d recently grown closer with, though he did not manage to work up the courage to actually present him with it.

Christmas Day itself was quiet for him. He was not particularly religious nor did he feel particularly welcome in, or suited to, any church. He lazed about in bed till mid morning. Went out and shared some food with some of Gavroche’s little band of miscreants.

He trudged back through the cold streets of Paris in the afternoon. Upon reaching his flat he piled up logs in the fireplace and set them burning. The mattress from his bedroom was dragged in front of the fire, blankets and quilts, cushions and pillows accompanying it until there was a soft warm pile to curl up in.

A bottle, or two, or more, of wine was poured out into a pan and set to mull, the scent of spice filling the air, a rare treat. Whilst he may have spent Christmas alone it was not an unhappy time, the dark melancholy kept at bay for the moment.

As he sat warming himself inside and out as evening bled into night he felt a small measure of contentment grew within him, something he had not felt in quite some time.


	22. Cold

At first Grantaire had thought it was just the changing of the seasons. The days getting shorter, the nights growing in, the cold finally seeping into the city. However he was no longer just cold. He was too cold, far too cold, so cold it may as well have been the very depth of winter. He could not get warm. No matter what he did he just could not get warm.

He’d pulled his mattress out into the living room, quilts and blankets and all, in front of the fireplace and piled the fire up high. It was now burning merrily in the grate and warmth should be spreading warmth throughout the room. Yet swaddled in blankets though he was in front of it he just could not take up the warmth. He was so, so cold.


	23. Warmth

Summer, he found, was often too warm for him. All these layers of clothing, all for propriety. He couldn’t care less, he would have walked around shirtless if it didn’t result in shocked gasps, people staring at him and an unfortunatly one sided discussion with one of the many officers of the law centering on public decency and the lack thereof.

The sun hurt hus eyes and, while he was predisposed to tanning, years spent in dark rooms either drinking or painting, if not both, meant it often hurt his skin aswell.

At night, however, summer came into its own for Grantaire.

Once the burning gaze of the sun itself had passed it left the earth infused with its warmth. To sit on the roof of a building, or hidden within the leafy branches of a tree in one of the many parks, enjoying the warmth of the day as it slowly seeped out of the city, bottle in hand, that was was a truly peaceful way to spend an evening. Even if he could not achieve quite the level of quiet contentment as he once had.


End file.
